


Atlantic City

by Tafadhali



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, First Time, Jealousy, Kid Fic, Multi, Oblivious, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-10
Updated: 2009-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tafadhali/pseuds/Tafadhali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney is the wind beneath John's wings. Or something equally gay. (A shameless <i>Beaches</i> AU, but with less character death.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Atlantic City, July 1979

John chewed on his lip and tugged at his tie, looking up and down the boardwalk. He could've sworn he'd left the hotel somewhere around here, but maybe he'd wandered a little further than he thought when started following the boys with the _completely awesome_ kite, hoping that if he looked cool enough they'd let him fly it. They hadn't. This was going to be a real set-back in operation "Prove to Aunt Elizabeth That I Can Take Care of Myself Now That I'm Twelve."

"A _tie_? On the beach? Are you _kidding me_?"

John swiveled around to find the source of the sarcasm and found himself face to face with a skinny boy about his age with floppy blond hair, sitting under the boardwalk. He had the pinched expression of someone who probably didn't surf and was wearing _suspenders_, so John didn't think he could really talk.

John's father had taught him to be polite, so he decided not to point this out, and instead stuck his hand out to be shaken. "I'm John Sheppard. I'm looking for my hotel."

"Of course you are," grumbled the boy, ignoring John's friendly gesture. "I am none other than the fantastic, world-famous, _child wonder_ Meredith McKay, piano prodigy, star of the Atlantic City stage!"

"_Meredith_?"

"Hey, I didn't come to the beach to be insulted," Meredith replied, jutting his jaw out defensively. "Leona thought the alliteration made for a good stage name." John just stared until Meredith sighed exasperatedly and said, "If you're going to hang around, you'd better come under here. I'm getting eyestrain looking up at you, and I'm not about to come out there, you have no _idea_ how easily I burn. I'd hate to deprive the musical community of my talents because of some kid with stupid hair and a _tie_. Besides," he added shiftily, "I'm hiding from Leona. She keeps trying to make me watch Jeannie, as if a _baby_ needs much watching. She can't even _walk_ yet. Do you think anyone made _Mozart_ babysit?"

John plopped down on the cool sand next to Meredith. "Probably not," he said, agreeably. This kid didn't seem to need much feedback to set him talking - he'd probably said more words just now than John's father and Aunt Elizabeth had all vacation, put together.

"What hotel did you say you were looking for?" asked the other boy suddenly. "I've been playing this circuit for months now, I probably know where it is."

"Um." John had _meant_ to double check the name of the hotel before he left - his father would call this Poor Procedure, if he noticed John had been gone at all - but somehow it had slipped his mind.

"Crummy or ritzy?"

"It's big. Marble floors. Lots of mirrors and potted plants. Kids in ties. I guess it's ritzy?"

"It's ritzy all right. Come with me," said Meredith, pulling John up by his wrist. "And you better call me Rodney if we're going to be _friends_."

And that is how John Sheppard met Rodney McKay.

* * *

They'd spent the rest of the day together. They had started out for John's hotel, but there were a lot of distractions for two eleven-year-old boys in Atlantic City. First, Rodney had wanted John to see the theatre where he played. It was a two-bit kiddy show - the kind Aunt Elizabeth had never let John go to - but when Rodney sat down to show off, he was good. Better than his surroundings. John had expected maybe classical music - he'd been to the San Francisco symphony before - but Rodney played jazzed up pop tunes, songs John recognized.

Then Rodney had started pointing out all the other kids in the show - "There's Jonas Kavanaugh, the hand-walking queer" - and the infamous Leona, who turned out to be Rodney's _mom_, a sturdy woman with a Canadian accent and an angelic blonde baby strapped to her back. She had made John nervous. He kept expecting her to tell him to "sing out, Louise!"

"You call your mom _Leona_?" he had asked Rodney.

"I suppose you call yours 'mother dear,' but some of us try and be a bit professional with our managers."

John's jaw had tightened. "My mother's dead."

Rodney got suspiciously and unprecedentedly soft and kind looking at that and had seemed on the verge of saying something pitying and horrible, but instead he suggested they go to the Arcade. John was pretty sure he wanted Rodney to be his best friend.

They had gone on the Ferris wheel four times, until Rodney said he would be sick if he went up one more time (only he said it more colorfully, and John didn't think that anyone could really get as sick as all that from a _Ferris wheel_). John had noticed how late it was getting and they finally had headed back to the hotel, which turned out to be named the Atlantis. _Duh, John_.

Rodney had shuffled awkwardly at the door, and John, unwilling to let the most exciting day of his life end, had pulled him into the hotel and marched him right up to the dining room, where he told the maitre d' in his most confident, _I belong here_ voice that they would like to charge two milkshakes to Colonel Patrick Sheppard's room. John had ordered a plain vanilla shake and Rodney, after scoffing at John's taste and making sure there was no citrus in the shakes, as if the waiter was going to add a _lemon twist_, settled on peanut butter-date.

They made it halfway through the milkshakes before Aunt Elizabeth, probably tipped off by the maitre d', had stormed into the dining room right as John was making walrus tusks with his straws. She had announced herself with a quiet but _very audible_, "John Patrick Sheppard, you've been gone for _hours_. How can you sit here and drink a milkshake with a strange boy in suspenders when your father and I have been worried sick?"

"This is my stage outfit," Rodney had said, indignantly.

Aunt Elizabeth fixed a stern gaze on him. "It's late. You'd best be getting back to _your_ hotel." She had started guiding Rodney firmly by the arm towards the door when John stood up suddenly. "Aunt Elizabeth, Rodney's my _guest_. I don't kick out _your_ guests." He turned to Rodney, who looked surprised at John's outburst - heck, John was surprised - and said, "Rodney, you're just about the most interesting person I've ever met." John dug around in his suit pocket for a scrap of paper and wrote down his address. "Write me?" He'd scratched the back of his neck, shy after his show of bravado, and embarrassed for feeling shy.

Rodney flushed. "Well, I'm very busy with my career, but, you know, for someone who only likes vanilla milkshakes you're not too bad either." He sniffed. "I'm sure I can work it into my schedule." But he was beaming when Aunt Elizabeth finally steered him out the door.

John grinned. In retrospect, that may have been when he fell in love.

* * *

> _12 August 1979_

John -

I've been doing show after show here - for plebeian audiences who don't understand that they're seeing GENIUS AT W0RK - and have been much too busy to write, but Leona somehow managed to shove Jeannie off on me to go to the casino. She can't even play chess - Jeannie, of course, my mother has above average intelligence, I certainly didn't get it from my father - so what else do I have to do but write to strange boys who can't keep track of unusually large hotels. Not that I write to lots of strange boys. ~~I'm not a girl in one of those shady bodice rippers or something~~.

0h god, Jeannie's crying. It's probably because Kavanaugh (the hand-walking queer, remember?) is performing. That makes me want to cry and I'm nearly twelve and very emotionally mature. I need to go.

Sincerely,  
M. Rodney McKay

P.S. I have to go back to school soon, even though I told Leona that there's nothing that Colonel Stevens Junior High can teach me that I don't already know or that will be pertinent to a musical career, but she didn't listen. BIG SURPRISE. You should write me back at...   
* * *

> _September 2, 1979_

Dear Rodney,

You should have seen my Aunt Elizabeth after you left. I don't think she's ever been so mad. It was worth it, though. How cool was that Ferris wheel? It was like we were flying.

If you ever come visit me in California, maybe my dad will take us up in his plane.

~~Yours Tr~~ ~~Best~~ John

* * *

> _23 May 1981_

I tried to run away to go to Juilliard last week, but they told me I was too young and that my music was "technically brilliant but lacked soul" which is adding insult to injury, if you ask me, aside from being wrong, wrong, wrong.

The injury was when Leona caught up with me. Apparently I'm not allowed to leave the country on my own.

* * *

> _July 5th, 1981_

This girl in my class, Mindy, kissed me at a pool party this weekend. It was weird, and I thought I'd tell you because the only other person I talk to ever is my Aunt Elizabeth and our cook, who's about ninety-six.

I think your piano playing's really good. Not as good as Barry Manilow, of course, but you can dream.

~~Hey, did you know we met two years ago this week?~~

* * *

> _25 April 1983_

Remembering my birthday for the first time since I was nine, my father has officially redeemed everything he has ever done in his entire life and gave me an IBM typewriter. [He thought it was my sixteenth, but I'm not complaining.] I never have to hand write anything again. You should ask your ritzy dad for one.

* * *

> _May 9th, 1983_

No thanks, I like pen and paper. Hope you enjoy the enclosed present.

[here is taped a packet of instant lemonade]

Your ritzy friend, John

* * *

> _17 May 1983_

Homicidal troglodyte.

* * *

> _December 21st, 1985_

I got your Christmas card - Jeannie has recognizable features now, and your hair is getting brown. I'm thinking of getting a mullet, I think it would be really cool.

Go see BACK TO THE FUTURE. You'll thank me.

* * *

> _18 January 1986_

That is the last time I take your advice about anything. Also, I don't think a mullet could make your hair anymore ridiculous than it already is. Are you sure you're eighteen? I think you were more mature when you were twelve.

Juilliard less exciting than I expected. Getting a paying job in a jazz bar much, much more exciting. Even if it's a very dirty, small jazz bar.

You should see my boss Sam...

* * *

> _August 29th, 1988_

Sometimes I get sick of words like proper, well-bred, and cultured. Sometimes I can't believe we haven't seen each other for nearly a decade and you're still somehow my best goddamn friend.

I tried to join the Air Force but the Colonel talked me down. Apparently I'm living out his law school fantasies. I'm back at Stanford. Thinking about joining the golf team.

* * *

> _14 April 1990_

I'm playing piano for a really very nearly on-Broadway show (it's certainly not off-off-off-off as Jeannie described it - she's become a real smartass) and I thought of you and your bizarre "Gypsy" obsession. Sometimes it's really clear how much pity was involved in my decision to spend time with you that day in Atlantic City.

I'm including a ticket in case you're not too busy with law school to, you know, fly across the country to see a third-rate musical that your best friend is sleepwalking his way through.

* * *  
__

> _June 7th, 1991_

Dad got me a job at his friend's law firm. It's very prestigious. Corporate law.

I flipped a coin - I'm coming to New York to do pro bono work and do some good with my degree.


	2. New York City, June 1991 - March 1994

Rodney was playing at the bar - he was _way_ too good for this place, but he got good beer for free and, hey, it was money - when an objectively extremely attractive man (sure Rodney was straight, but you work in a gay bar long enough and you develop some artistic discernment) with sloppy brown hair and possibly some smudged eyeliner - unless, god help him, he just looked like that naturally - slunk up to the piano.

"Hey," said the guy, ducking his head and shooting Rodney a coy look through his eyelashes.

"I'm flattered," said Rodney, deciding to cut right to the chase, "but straight - I know, yadda yadda yadda, what's a straight guy doing playing at the Cocksucker, _you_ try finding a job in New York - and a little bit busy being a musical genius."

"Rodney," said hot guy, looking mildly scandalized. "It's _me_."

The penny dropped. "_John_?" hissed Rodney. "You're not wearing a tie!"

"Yeah, no, I quit my corporate job and am working in Brooklyn and, you know, my aunt Elizabeth doesn't actually choose my clothing for me anymore."

"I'm sorry, you seemed so much more homosexual than I remember!" Apparently, running into his best friend whom he hasn't seen since he was eleven made him say even more wildly inappropriate things than usual.

"Well," said John, blinking in his particularly laconic way, "I don't think I seem that much more homosexual. Though I did decide against joining the Air Force, which could be a point for or against."

"I'm going to stop talking now," Rodney said, jumping off the stage, ignoring the glares his manager was sending him and pulling John into a tight hug. "It's really good to see you."

"You too," John choked out, sounding suspiciously emotional. "And I'm glad to hear it, because I need a place to stay."

* * *

Rodney's apartment was somewhat on the bare side - "I'm twenty-three, and a starving artist!" he'd sniffed, preemptively, when John had walked in - but John didn't seem too put off by it. He was looser than Rodney remember, probably the only person in history who left San Francisco and became less uptight. Or maybe it was just the lack of a tie.

Rodney, who'd never been able to quite make it work with a roommate, was surprised by how easily they slipped into a routine, playing Nintendo and eating cereal all morning, John going off to save the world in the afternoon with his menacing lawyer friend Ronon, meeting up with Rodney at the bar in the evenings. Sometimes they'd go to the movies or free concerts. John didn't make fun of Rodney's superhero boxers or his displays of unironic glee (Rodney tried to keep his unironic side well hidden, it didn't feel very artistic) when the music was going especially well, and Rodney didn't hold it against John that he secretly had the least attractive laugh in the entire world. John was completely familiar from over a decade of correspondence, and yet somehow surprising at the same time, his utterly ridiculous faces and way of drawling Rodney's name unreproduceable in a letter.

Things were going along swimmingly, really, which is why it was so surprising when the Teyla thing happened.

* * *

It's not that playing Barry Manilow songs - thanks, _John_ \- at the world's crummiest gay bar wasn't a fantastic gig, but it didn't exactly pay the bills. And John's contributions to the rent, aside from the odd check from the Colonel that Rodney managed to confiscate and deposit before John threw it away, were mostly limited to looking really pretty and charming the landlord into giving them just _one more week_. So, really, Rodney needed a second job, and the fact that his second job involved wearing lederhosen and playing the accordion while delivering candygrams, while humiliating, was really negligible in comparison to _being homeless and having to pimp John out for Happy Meals_. Or that's what he kept telling himself when John laughed his ass off and actually _ran_ to the drugstore to get a disposable camera and then tacked the pictures up at the Cocksucker.

It was Rodney's second day on the job, and he was climbing to the seventh floor of a pre-war walkup, wishing he were dead - the lederhosen _bunched_, in a really uncomfortable way - and wondering if pimping John out would actually be that bad. He reached the door - 7A, Emmagen - and rapped irritably. A petite woman with long brown hair twisted up in a bun opened the door. She had warm, serious eyes and was wearing a _leather shirt_. When she bubbled up with laughter, Rodney fell into a very deep state of what he was at least willing to call limerance at this stage. Never had he wished he were wearing lederhosen less.

Sighing deeply, Rodney began to play the company tune on his accordion, finally presenting the box of candy with a flourish. "Apparently, you have some admirers who wish to congratulate you for something," he snapped, "in the most humiliating - for me, obviously - way possible."

The woman - Miss Emmagen? - managed not to laugh at him, but her mouth was twitching in a very suspicious way. "You're actually very good with the accordion," she said, consolingly.

"Of course I am, I was trained at Julliard. Well, not in the accordion obviously - God, I hate this job. Is it hot in here, or is it just the lederhosen and ungodly walk up?"

"Would you like to come in for some water?" the woman asked, gesturing becomingly. "And perhaps some candy. I prefer savory foods," she said, smiling, "but my friends wanted to congratulate me on the opening of our show."

"Thoughtful," said Rodney, snorting and striding into the woman's apartment. "What sort of show? You looking for a pianist? Because I am probably," he paused and decided on modesty, "_one_ of the best in New York."

"Actually…"

* * *

"I got a new job," crowed Rodney as he burst into the apartment, carrying a case of beer, "so we're going to get shit-faced and burn the lederhosen!"

"Congrats, Rodney," said John, stretching languidly as he sat up on the couch, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Apparently lawyering and political activism took a lot out of a guy, but Rodney didn't think it could exactly compare to having to play the accordion. When John turned that coy-eyelashes-proud look at Rodney, Rodney's heart stuttered a little, but he was having a very exciting day so he decided it probably wasn't indicative of early onset heart disease.

"Technically the pay is absolutely laughable, but I'll mostly have my dignity. And more audience for my prodigious skills."

"Don't forget fantastic and world-famous." John stood up and took the case of Rodney's hands, squeezing the back of Rodney's neck as he did so. "We clearly need to celebrate."

Seven beers apiece and six sloppy rounds of "I Love Louisa" - Rodney hadn't realized that living with John Sheppard would mean watching every Cyd Charisse film ever made, but he thrived on intellectual discovery - at the piano in, and John and Rodney were sprawled bonelessly over one another on the couch. John, still twelve in some ways, apparently, was playing idly with Rodney's not-as-blond-as-they-used-to-be curls. Rodney realized suddenly that in his detailed description of his new job - "Two blocks closer to Broadway! That has to count for something! Even though I'm obviously meant for Carnegie Hall, where there won't be so many _actors_ distracting the audience from my work-" - he had neglected the most important detail. "The artistic director? Teyla? She is _smoking_ hot. Obviously I'm not using the word _love_ yet-" John stiffened under him "-but I would say limerance. That's, you know, a state of lust combined with strong emotion."

"A crush," said John flatly.

"Yes, yes, be twelve some more, reduce this to the level of kissing _Mindy_ at a grade seven pool party." Rodney propped himself up with some difficulty. "She gave me a job. I'm pretty sure I'm in. Give me some skin," he cried, holding his hand up for a high five in a drunken impulse. Tonight felt the night for giving into such things.

John didn't seem to have the same attitude. Instead of giving the desired skin, he rolled out from under Rodney and said a terse goodnight, citing an early work morning. Rodney felt put out, but he'd gotten letters from _sixteen-year-old_ John Sheppard - he knew that under that laid-back exterior there lay a real moody bitch. Who knew what set him off. Rodney decided to have another beer or two before hitting the hay, because _he_ was not done celebrating.

* * *

Nothing happened with Teyla for months, but Rodney could respect that. She was kind of his boss. He could play it cool until the wrap party. And the production wasn't bad, as far as idealistic and overly conceptual performance pieces went. Rodney was even getting some recognition for it. All deserved, of course.

Rodney wasn't surprised - though he was, perhaps, a bit threatened - when he learned that John's coworker Ronon was actually already a good friend of Teyla's. The man might be an eight-foot-tall Neanderthal with, John assured him, a frightening knife collection, but he drove a _VW Bus_. Of course he knew Teyla. Nor was it surprising when John became a fixture at the theatre - he really had a shockingly limited social circle, so Rodney supposed it was either befriend Teyla or start hanging out with Mrs. Wallerstein, the sexagenarian dominatrix, from down the hall. The four of them were becoming a kind of team, almost. It was…nice.

What Rodney wasn't expecting was to come home and find John and Teyla making out like teenagers on his couch, Teyla's trademark leather blouse unlaced to reveal a hint of the breasts he'd really been hoping to see for himself when the season ended.

"What the _fuck_, John?"

John sat up comically straight, slack-jawed and debauched. He managed an "Um" and then darted for the bathroom. Rodney turned his aggrieved stare to Teyla - he lived with John, it's not like he could _hide_.

Teyla sighed and laced her shirt closed. "It seems I've become involved in something more complicated than I'd realized. I'm sorry, Rodney," she said, sounding sincere in the way that Teyla always did. "John has become a friend, and he needed something. I didn't mean to hurt you," she continued, heading towards the door, "But you need to speak with John, not with me." And she was gone, leaving Rodney actually speechless.

"What the fuck," he asked the universe.

John poked his head out of the bathroom uncertainly. "What the fuck," said Rodney, more forcefully this time, pointing sternly at John. "You - you - you don't even have sex!"

John frowned. "I've had sex."

"Oh, please, the last girl you mentioned was kissed-you-on-a-dare Mindy. What, is the girl I like just so irresistible?"

"Maybe!" John exploded. "Maybe I was carried away by my… base, masculine passions! Maybe I'm going to go over to her place and have more sex right now!" And then John was gone.

He was back forty minutes later, though, looking winded and repentant. "I don't think Teyla's going to be having sex with either of us. For quite some time," he said, collapsing into a kitchen chair. "She did spar with me though. Said it would clear my mind. She's a lot stronger than she looks." He breathed heavily and then said, "I'm, you know, sorry. Really sorry. I wasn't thinking. And Teyla's, you know, Teyla. How can you not love her a little?"

Rodney snorted. "Oh, I know." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm less angry than I thought I would be," he admitted. He'd spent the first twenty minutes after John left thinking about punching him in the face - or maybe slapping him, Rodney's hands were worth a lot - but the idea of John, hurt, angry, storming away again had made his stomach twist up tighter than walking in on John and Teyla had. "When I get pissed at you I always end up seeing you in a ridiculous tie _on a beach_ and it's hard to maintain."

John glanced up at Rodney, eyes dark and hopeful. "We're okay?"

"We will be. As long as we never talk about our feelings ever again, and you don't make out with people I have dibs on."

John snorted. "You can't have _dibs_ on someone."

"Sure you can. Emotional dibs. Not creepy sexual dibs. I'm calling dibs on Cindy Crawford _right now_…"

Rodney and John were okay a lot sooner than Rodney had expected, because nine days later John got a phone call from his aunt Elizabeth telling him that Colonel Sheppard was dying and that he needed to come home and things with Teyla faded into the background.

* * *

> _From: mrmckay@aol.com  
> To: sheppard428@aol.com  
> Sent: 03-08-94  
> Subject: Home?_
> 
> Did you make it back, okay? I called but your aunt Elizabeth still hates me. You better check your damn e-mail, I got you an account for situations just like this.
> 
> mrm

* * *

> _From: mrmckay@aol.com  
> To: sheppard428@aol.com  
> Sent: 03-09-94  
> Subject: Stop being a troglodyte_
> 
> You know how to type.
> 
> mrm

* * *

> _March 11th, 1994_
> 
> Hey Rodney,
> 
> Sorry my father's pancreatic cancer prevented a speedy reply - I still prefer pen and paper. They've still got an opening for me at Buck Harris' law firm, it can be just like I never left San Francisco. I'm even back in a tie. It does have little planes on it though. Aunt Elizabeth hates it, but sends you her indifference.
> 
> John

* * *

> _From: mrmckay@aol.com  
> To: sheppard428@aol.com  
> Sent: 04-02-94  
> Subject: You're crazy_
> 
> The cost of stamps actually can really add up, you know.
> 
> mrm

* * *

> _From: mrmckay@aol.com  
> To: sheppard428@aol.com  
> Sent: 11-14-94  
> Subject: Finally my genius is being recognized_
> 
> There's been some buzz about Teyla's latest play - buzz as in "Rodney McKay is a genius" buzz, which might translate into fame and fortune.
> 
> Some buzz of a more private nature is that Teyla and I have become, um, an "item." I don't know why she puts up with me, really, aside from the fact that I am clearly a rising star, but she remains Teyla, so I am not probing too deeply.
> 
> mrm

* * *

> _From: mrmckay@aol.com  
> To: sheppard428@aol.com  
> Sent: 11-14-94  
> Subject: Re: Finally my genius is being recognized_
> 
> Oh god, I thought email was supposed to give you time to edit your thoughts.
> 
> mrm
> 
> p.s. please e-mail me back, John

* * *

> _From: sheppard428@aol.com  
> To: mrmckay@aol.com  
> Sent: 11-15-94  
> Subject: Re: Re: Finally my genius is being recognized_
> 
> congrats on getting the girl, rodney. teyla's great - treat her right.
> 
> i'm seeing someone too. at work. her name's chaya. she's very new age. you would hate her.
> 
> John

* * *

> _5 February 1995_
> 
> I am returning to the handwritten word for the purposes of sending you clippings of my miraculous success (it's not bragging if it's true). Don't read this as a capitulation.
> 
> Also attached are photographs of my - and Teyla's - hugely extravagant apartment and our new cat, who may or may not be the spawn of Satan. She's called Precious, but don't ask me where that came from…

* * *

> _Mr. and Mrs. Sar invite you to celebrate the marriage of their daughter **Chaya** to **John Sheppard** on April the Seventh, Nineteen Ninety-Five._
> 
> \- I hope you can make it, buddy

* * *

> _From: mrmckay@aol.com  
> To: sheppard428@aol.com  
> Sent: 02-12-95  
> Subject: none_
> 
> A bit rushed, isn't it? mrm

* * *

> _From: sheppard428@aol.com  
> To: mrmckay@aol.com  
> Sent: 02-12-95  
> Subject: Re: none_
> 
> well, my dad's dying, rodney
> 
> are you coming?

  
* * *

> _From: mrmckay@aol.com  
> To: sheppard428@aol.com  
> Sent: 02-13-95  
> Subject: FOR GOD'S SAKE, CAPITALISE_
> 
> I'm afraid I have a duty to grace the public with my genius on that date. I'm very, very busy. Very. I'll send you and Chaya tickets. Maybe you can visit after the wedding? I'm playing Carnegie.
> 
> Sorry.
> 
> mrm


	3. New York City, June 1995

John rested a hand on Chaya's shoulder, inhaling the scent of her hair. She had some of the contained charm that made Teyla so appealing, the serenity that masked considerable strength. She had less of Teyla's warmth, but John wasn't exactly feeling warm and fuzzy himself lately. She grounded him as he looked around Rodney's new apartment.

It was large. And white. And definitely Rodney's - Teyla had been pretty much interior decorated away, the theatre posters, gauzy curtains, and intricate wooden carvings that had filled the apartment where John had last seen her replaced with tastefully bland black and white photography.

John wanted to see Rodney. He did. They'd managed somehow to leave on good terms after John had fucked everything up with Teyla, and any residual… weirdness should be gone. He was here with Chaya, Rodney was (_bizarrely, _ John's mind supplied) here with Teyla. Everything was aces.

He was just having a little trouble reconciling Rodney's current life with his memories of take out containers and cheap science fiction paperbacks scattered around their apartment, of watching Rodney play in the divey bar in the Village.

Chaya was chatting politely with Teyla, and it occurred to John that he was being rude. He shook himself out of it and turned his best rakish grin on Teyla. "The place is looking great," he said plastically. "Where's Rodney hiding himself?"

Teyla smiled in a way that somehow suggested that she was rolling her eyes without requiring her to stoop to doing so. "The genius is at work. As always." She rapped on a door at the back of the large living room and called to Rodney to come greet his guests.

Rodney burst into the room, trailing a massive orange cat and wearing the same ratty bathrobe he'd had when he lived with John. John found it reassuring.

"Sorry, sorry!" Rodney cried, "I was just emailing that _moron_ Simpson about my lighting, it makes me look completely washed out. And then Zalenka-" He stopped, and beamed at John. "It's good to see you, John."

John's heart clenched - he pulled Chaya's hand into his own and squeezed it harder than he might have, earning himself a quizzical look from his wife. "This is Chaya, Rodney."

Rodney gave Chaya a quick, appraising look. "The new Mrs. Sheppard, right, right - how have things been in California, John?"

"Actually, it's Ms. Sar," Chaya corrected him coolly, and John winced internally. Chaya did not take kindly to being either appraised or dismissed. "I've kept my maiden name for professional reasons."

"As would I," said Teyla smoothly, apparently deciding that letting Rodney speak too much was a dangerous proposition. "May I fix you a cup of coffee while Rodney changes for dinner?"

Teyla took Chaya to the kitchen, and Rodney, shooting a huffy look after her but clapping John affectionately on the shoulder, vanished into the back room. John was left sitting on an impossible armchair from the 1960s, staring at Precious, who was biting the heads off of a vase full of chrysanthemums. "Life is fucking weird," he told the cat, who hissed and knocked the vase over onto John's lap.

* * *

Dinner had been an interesting operation so far. Rodney had spent the first ten minutes fighting with their waiter, who had made the grave error of giving him water with _lemon_, and the next twenty talking about his show and somehow, in the process, managing to belittle Teyla's lifework. He topped it off by realizing, partway through the main course, that he had to leave for a late rehearsal, dashing off with a quick, "See you after the show tomorrow, John! Chakra!"

John, shifting uncomfortably in his borrowed trousers, picked at his lobster. He would have ordered something less labor-intensive if he'd realized he would be dining in a war zone. Chaya was looking unimpressed and bored on his left, while Teyla made less than her usual effort to keep conversation flowing, half-heartedly filling John in on the show Ronon was helping her finance. John had spent most of the meal grinding his ice down with his teeth every time Rodney and Teyla had interacted, so his input was mostly monosyllabic.

When Chaya got up to use the restroom, John turned to Teyla. "Weird to see you and Rodney together," he said, crunching away at his ice. "You two doing okay?"

"Rodney is Rodney," said Teyla, pouring herself another glass of wine. "Only even more so than usual. He's preoccupied with his concerts right now, and your being here - well." She took a sip of wine. "I care for Rodney a great deal."

Crunch. "It's great that you guys are together now. Really great."

"Thank you. And how are you and Chaya enjoying married life?" asked Teyla.

"Couldn't be better."

Chaya came back and the discussion turned to where she wanted to summer and the country club she thought she and John should join and John tuned out.

* * *

John had always enjoyed watching Rodney play - sitting on barstools, leaning on Rodney's piano in smoke-filled rooms, shouting out inappropriate requests. Rodney was in top form tonight, but John just felt tired and alone sitting in a mass of over-dressed people, Rodney's performance slick and glossy under Simpson's fiber-optic light display (which _did_ make Rodney look washed out, John thought meanly). Chaya clapped politely at the appropriate moments, even though John knew she hated standards.

Teyla deposited John and Chaya backstage after the performance, but stopped only long enough to kiss Rodney goodnight, announcing that she had an early meeting with investors. Rodney, loosening his bowtie, greeted them with an enthusiastic, "What did you think?"

"You're very talented," Chaya allowed, which John could have told her would only set Rodney off - "Of course, I'm _talented_," he'd snorted, "It's not like they just _picked me off the street_." Chaya left shortly afterwards, claiming exhaustion, and had looked at John as if expecting him to follow. The temptation was there, but Rodney had said, "What about you, John, want to stop by the Cocksucker for old times' sake?" and John, even noting Chaya's mildly appalled look, could hardly say no.

They settled into a booth at the bar - Rodney with a fussy cocktail, John with a Scotch and soda - and the familiarity of the place overwhelmed John, but made him feel more comfortable than he had all day. His comfort lasted nearly three whole drinks, and then Rodney said, waggling his eyebrows and shattering John's complacency, "Okay, so, what's the deal with Chaya?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for one thing, she doesn't seem to like me much. There's no accounting for taste, of course, but. John. She spent all of dinner talking about yachts and questioning your choice in _ties_. It's like you married your aunt Elizabeth in ball-busting Scientologist form."

"She is not a Scient - she's my _wife_, Rodney. Do you think maybe you were too busy pissing Teyla off at dinner to even _talk_ to Chaya?"

"I wasn't pissing Teyla off! We just have a naturally volatile relationship! It's why we have so much sexual chemistry! And I don't want this to be about me-"

"That's a change," said John. He did not need to know about Rodney's sexual chemistry.

"I'm ignoring that!" Rodney said, and persisted, "I'm a little drunk right now and maybe being an asshole, but I don't _trust_ Chaya. You clearly rushed into things, and you haven't been yourself since you got here."

"You're the one who's being weird, Rodney." John was maybe shouting a little, judging by the looks of the other patrons and the whispered '_Lover's spat_' from the next table. "You're like a parody of yourself, with your stupid apartment, and Teyla, and your psychotic cat, and - do you know what your show reminded me of?"

"Do I want to?" asked Rodney tightly.

John leaned down, his face close enough to Rodney's that he could feel his breath. "_Andrew Lloyd Webber_," he hissed, and stormed out of the bar.

He woke Chaya up at six the next morning, packing their things into his suitcase. "We're leaving early," he said.

* * *

Two months later, Chaya said much the same thing to John as she and Buck Harris Jr. packed up her things and left John alone, with an empty five-bedroom house and a completely unnecessary yacht. 1995 was not his year.


	5. San Francisco, August-September 1996

Rodney crunched moodily on the ice that was all that remained of his drink. "Another?" he snapped at the bartender - who should be able to tell when his customers were suffering _emotional duress_, wasn't that in the bartenders' handguide? - "I'm really a very important person," he added sullenly.

The bartender gave Rodney another drink with something less than good grace, but Rodney decided to let it go. Teyla had called him earlier that day, nominally to ask about Rodney's recitals, but secretly, he thought, to complain about Precious, whom Rodney was beginning to suspect Teyla _actually_ didn't like. The point was, anyway, that it had brought up _memories_.

"Rodney," Teyla had said, sounding sad and serious, a few weeks after John and Chaya had left - sometime around ignored e-mail #139432 - "We need to talk," and even Rodney - whose relationship experience pretty much was a year and a half with Katie Brown, a mousy violinist at Juilliard, and three torrid weeks with April Bingham, a tap dancing juggler, when he was twelve - knew this was a bad sign.

"I care about you deeply," Teyla had continued, because she was good about saying things like that upfront, "and we have been friends for a long while - but I'm afraid that might be part of the problem. We're more friends than lovers, and our lives are heading in very different directions."

Rodney had spluttered, but Teyla never let him interrupt her. "I'm pleased with your success, Rodney, but I have never been interested in this kind of lifestyle. I wish to focus on creating theatre that is important to me, and I believe you may need to reevaluate what is important to you."

"Is this because I missed that charity event? Because I've apologized for that-"

Sensing that Rodney had once again missed the subtext of what she was saying - it's not like she was ever _unambiguous_ \- had continued, mildly exasperatedly, by saying, "That is part of it, but not the point. John's visit and your subsequent fight have brought up many issues I thought had been resolved, Rodney."

"You're still in love with _John_?" Rodney had exploded. "He's _married_, to that, that _harlot_, and, and _you're_ married! Well, okay, no, but I'd been think about asking you-"

"_I_ am not in love with John," Teyla had said, with a meaningful look.

That had probably been what led to their relationship's ultimate demise, thought Rodney sadly as he sipped his drink through one of those little mixing straws. He'd never gotten the hang of, well, understanding what the fuck Teyla was saying ever. But she was so _pretty_.

As to things with John, he really didn't know how that all had self-destructed, except he guessed that insulting your best friend's wife was a social no-no, even if you _really didn't like her_. Jeannie hadn't reacted nearly so badly when he told her he was concerned her boyfriend was mentally deficient - constructive criticism was obviously just his way of showing affection.

"God, this is depressing," Rodney said, and, tossing down a tip for the bartender, he stumbled outdoors, into the blinding sunlight. This is why people didn't often drink at three in the afternoon. He turned in the direction of his hotel and stumbled directly into a pram, knocking the man pushing it off balance, sending shopping bags flying. Rodney reached dizzily down to help the man up and found himself face to face with John Sheppard.

"John?"

"Rodney?" John looked completely blindsided. Then, shaking his head, "Are you _drunk_?"

"Yes, yes, let's be judgmental of the heartbroken, lovesick man, just because-" here he looked at the carriage and, for the first time, really took it in "-you and your wife are apparently living a life of domestic bliss - oh, god, John, do you seriously have a baby? I'm too drunk for this."

"Let's get you home," said John, gripping Rodney's upper arm and pulling him towards sort of ludicrous Land Rover that Rodney would be sure to make fun of once he'd finished dying of shock.

* * *

John moved efficiently around his spacious kitchen, fixing Rodney a pot of coffee and bouncing the infant in one of those ridiculous baby-slings usually worn by people who weren't Rodney's estranged best friend. The baby had John's hair.

"Here," John said, adding sugar to Rodney's cup without needing to be asked.

"You have a baby," Rodney observed.

"Yep," said John. "You and Teyla split up."

"I think you're still winning the This Needs to Be Explained Immediately stakes."

"Well, Rodney, when a man and a woman-" John stopped and sighed, sounding tired. "It's a long story. Let me put Victoria down." John disappeared briefly, then returned and sat next to Rodney. "Well, first off, congratulations, you were right. Chaya? Not so trust-worthy."

"Oh, god, John," Rodney said, feeling a bit stricken, and sensing that 'I told you so!' would be an inappropriate response.

"I came home one day and found her in bed with my boss's son. She told me she was leaving me, and-" John took a deep breath "-about two weeks later, my dad died."

Rodney wanted to touch John, but he was sitting there so rigidly that Rodney was afraid he would break him somehow. It wouldn't be unlike him.

"I took care of the funeral and the divorce proceedings and then, five months ago, Chaya turned up and she brought me Victoria." John's smile was brilliant.

* * *

Rodney looked at the sleeping baby. She was really pretty cute, as far as babies went. "How do you know she's yours?" Rodney asked. John shot him an offended look.

"Well, I guess she does have your elf ears," Rodney said, to mollify him. John smacked him. "I mean, she is so beautiful that she could only have sprung from your loins."

"I'm a very good-looking man," John agreed.

"Oh, now you're just fishing for compliments." Rodney checked his watch. "Oh crap. I need to be at the club in an hour."

"You're playing here in town?" John asked, surprised.

"What, you thought I came here to get drunk and win you back? I'm a working man."

"Can I come?" John asked quickly. "Aunt Elizabeth keeps offering to babysit Victoria - I think she just wants me to have a social life again, honestly - and… it's been a while since I've seen you play, Rodney."

"Last time you said I reminded you of Andrew Lloyd Webber," Rodney pointed out. Not that he was still miffed about that.

John flushed. "Let's not talk about last time. Ever. You're an asshole, I'm an asshole, we're both assholes - it'll probably be best for our friendship if we learn to just forget about those incidents."

"I don't know, John - will I ever get over having my stagecraft compared to that of a man who landed a _helicopter_ on stage in one of his shows?"

"Pretty sure that was the guys who did _Les Miz_, Rodney."

"Stud."

* * *

It was the next weekend, and Rodney hadn't been back to the hotel since that first night. Tonight, Victoria was in bed - and she almost always slept through the night, which made her the best baby _ever_ in Rodney's book - and Rodney had gotten John to agree to have _one beer_. It was a major victory, because John seemed to think that if he had a drop of alcohol, he'd pass out and the house would catch on fire. Rodney, however, had no such compunctions and was happily buzzed, sprawled on the sofa against John, feeling twenty-two again.

"Teyla's right, absolutely right," Rodney said expansively, punctuating each word with a jab of his finger at John and a swig of beer. "My priorities are completely out of whack. And my apartment is like living in a performance art space!"

John nodded, as if he couldn't really argue with that.

"I should stay here." Rodney turned and looked John earnestly in the eyes. He put his hand on John's chest, and could feel his pulse begin to race. It was warm in here, warm even for August in California. "I should stay here with you."

John's tongue darted out and he licked his lips. He was too flushed for one beer. "Rodney," he said, and his voice seemed to crack. "Rodney, I was jealous. In New York, when we fought. I was jealous."

Rodney patted John's thigh magnanimously. "It's true that I had an extremely hot girlfriend and successful career. I'm practically jealous of myself. I don't blame you for liking Teyla still."

"Yeah, Rodney," said John, sounding strangely defeated. "Teyla's pretty great."

Rodney leaned in close and whispered hotly into John's ear, "I think I'm mostly over her," which he hadn't realized was true until just then. Rodney fell asleep like that, pressed against John's side. He woke up alone, covered in John's spare throw and with creases from the couch in his face.

* * *

Semi-retirement was agreeing with Rodney. So, yes, he'd made a drastic change in his life, but that was the sort of thing people _did_ after the end of a long-term relationship, and, really, it was best to get out of the limelight in his prime, and be remembered as the star he rightfully was. He was pretty sure.

He'd been in the suburbs a month, and he was already becoming so _domestic_. He went to cook-outs and had joined the neighborhood book club (for one meeting, he'd left around when they announced that they would be reading _The Deep End of the Ocean_ as part of some new Oprah thing) and he was looking into _real estate_, albeit somewhat haphazardly. John didn't seem to mind having him around. Rodney thought he might even be glad for even the limited help Rodney could give with Victoria. She really wasn't too bad, as far as babies were concerned, although Rodney didn't have a very large pool of comparisons - the last baby he'd been involved with was a freshman at MIT now, and dating some pothead English major. Jeannie had laughed a little harder than Rodney considered really appropriate the last time he'd talked to her on the phone and had mentioned his move to the suburbs and new babysitting duties. "I should go, I don't want to keep you from finishing your _Ladies' Home Journal_ before you have to start preparing your husband's after-work martini," she'd said as she hung up, adding "Say hi to the boyfriend," which is what she always called John.

John actually _had_ gone back to work in the past few weeks, but Rodney almost never had dinner waiting for him when he got home. John had insisted on hiring a nanny when he returned to the law firm, but he was tactful enough to say that it was because Rodney "hadn't signed up for this," not that he thought Rodney would drop Victoria on her head. Which, you know, Rodney couldn't really have argued with - he felt he kept up his part of the bargain by spying on Matilda, the nanny, and making sure she wasn't smoking crack in the nursery or reading to Victoria from Ayn Rand or something.

Honestly, Rodney was happier than he had been in a long time.

Rodney was sitting on the porch reading the _Chronicle_ and fiddling with the baby monitor that had somehow taken up permanent residence in his back pocket when he roamed the house, when John called him, sounding rather frazzled, like he always did when he suspected he might be jeopardizing his Father of the Year title. "Hey, Rodney, my meeting ran a bit late and Victoria has her six month check-up right now - could you drive her to the pediatrician's for me? I swear I'll be there in twenty, thirty minutes tops."

"Sure, sure," Rodney had said, and, "Of _course_ I know how to use the car seat, I'm very mechanically inclined," and then he was bundling Victoria up in her tiny pink bunny jacket - September in San Francisco was _cold_ \- and into John's mom car.

He bustled into the pediatrician's office, bouncing Victoria on his hip a little and telling her that she was a ridiculously healthy baby and didn't need to worry about the witchdoctors.

"Oh, Victoria and I are old friends," said a disgustingly perky voice that - well, actually, it belonged to a surprisingly attractive young woman, carrying a clipboard and wearing a lab coat lightly patterned with ducks. "I'm Dr. Keller," she said, smiling brightly. "John phoned to tell me you'd be coming."

"I'm Rodney," Rodney said, winningly.

* * *

"Well, I thought asking her out seemed like the logical next step in my post-breakup, post-New York development," Rodney snapped into the phone. "He didn't have to be such a drama queen about it."

"Rodney," Teyla's voice crackled through, warningly and long-sufferingly.

Rodney needed to make a friend he hadn't dated. "He accused me of looking for a trophy wife to continue my delusions of domesticity with!"

"Is that Rodney?" Rodney heard a deep, unmistakable voice on Teyla's end.

Oh for God's sake - "Is Ronon there? Wait - are you _seeing_ one another? No, don't tell me."

"I'm cooking dinner, Rodney, I'm putting you on speakerphone," Teyla said, which was totally not an answer.

Not that Rodney _cared_, he just wanted to know if she was planning on dating all of his New York friends. And, if so, if she could maybe move on to Samantha Carter next. He opted against saying that last part, and instead snorted and said, "_You're_ cooking?" which possibly wasn't much more politic, even if it did make Ronon laugh.

"I should move back to New York where at least I have an appreciative audience."

Rodney heard someone - clearly Ronon - chewing loudly and licking his fingers. _He's a lawyer, he must have learned phone etiquette at some point_, he thought irritably, and his mood only worsened when Ronon said, "You're breaking up with Shep?"

"Why does no one seem to grasp the concept of platonic friendship?" Rodney griped. "First my sister, now _you_."

He was slightly gratified to hear Teyla turn her warning, long-suffering tones on Ronon somewhere in the background. Rodney heard Ronon mutter, "What? They're living together again, I figured John told him."

"Told me what?"

And that was when Rodney's ex-girlfriend told him that he and John had been in love for nearly a decade.

* * *

To be honest, things made a lot more sense in that light.

Yes, Rodney had been a bit ... piqued at first. Mainly that Teyla hadn't just told him, when apparently she'd figured things out sometime around when Rodney walked in on John with his hand up her blouse.

"You know I don't see subtext!"

"Perhaps I thought that at nearly thirty you would have some insight into your own sexuality."

"Well, obviously, you were wrong!"

Only now, Rodney didn't really know what to do, and he couldn't exactly ask Teyla for help with this part. (Okay, he had asked, but she had said the quinoa was burning and hung up on him.) Obviously the first step was calling Jennifer up and cancelling their date, telling John things just "hadn't worked out" and seeing him unwind just a little bit, but after that Rodney was at a loss. It was difficult to suddenly view a fifteen year relationship in a radically different light, to realize the warmth he felt when John smiled at him or made ridiculous faces at Victoria or, you know, came home panting and scantily clad from some strenuous physical activity wasn't just friendly affection. With Teyla it had been easy - she wore leather skirts, which were a really good indicator that you might be feeling lust.

Giving up a lucrative career, moving cross country on a whim, and becoming a full time babysitter, all for your best friend, maybe could have been an indicator this was something more permanent.

Rodney was sitting in the living room, reading some inane picture book to Victoria and, whenever that got so dull that he was sure even a six-month-old couldn't appreciate it, occasionally breaking off to debate the merits of wooing John with his piano skills. "The pro is obviously that I am enormously talented," Rodney said, "but the con is that your father likes Bon Jovi, so his musical taste is clearly suspect." Victoria burped in reply, and Rodney sighed. Things were bad enough when he was merely a cat person; now he was becoming one of _those_ parents. Occasional babysitters. Whatever.

_"You give love a... bad name,"_ John sang off-key from the doorway, where he had magically appeared. "Whatcha guys talking about?" he asked, as he walked over and scooped up Victoria, sitting next to Rodney on the couch. He gave Rodney's knee a conciliatory little nudge, in patented John Sheppard we're-still-friends-but-let's-not-talk-about-my-jealous-outburst form, and smiled that goddamned shy smile, and, he hadn't planned it this way, but that was pretty much the death knoll of Rodney's not kissing John.

It was amazing, it was better than Rodney had dreamed, and his report cards had always said he had a vivid imagination, it was hotter and sweeter than he'd been kissed in years, it was - very suddenly over.

John pulled back, looking dazed, dazed and debauched, and. Oh. Yes. He was holding a baby.

"I'm going to go put Victoria down for a nap," John said, slowly and roughly. "If you move before I get back, I will finally kill you."

Rodney could work with that.

* * *

> _From: mrmckay@aol.com  
> To: temmagen@aol.com  
> Sent: 09-14-96  
> Subject: You were right_

So, so right.

mrm

P.S. John says to tell Ronon thanks, and that he'll consider the job offer. We might be ready to try New York again.


	6. Epilogue: Atlantic City, July 2009

"Yes, sometimes even world-famous pianists have their starts in the humblest of places," Rodney said, gesturing expansively at the boardwalk that stretched out before him and throwing his arm around the skinny, dark-haired girl standing next to him. She looked obediently raptly through heart-shaped sunglasses at the long-abandoned theatre and took a slow sip of her vanilla milkshake.

"Wow, Rodney," she said, just a hint of a sardonic drawl completely undermining any apparent sincerity in her words. "You sure must have been something. Funny how you came here when you were eleven and yet 'thirteen's too young for ballet school.'" She slurped more milkshake. "Aunt Jeannie says you dropped her on her head when you were here as a kid and that that's why Daddy made me have a nanny 'til I was six."

"Aunt Jeannie was two, what does she remember about it. Besides, (1) I was a musical prodigy, not a childcare professional, (2) if you go to ballet school now you will become an anorexic with crippled feet and since it isn't your only way out of a future of coal mining in 1980s England, I'm going to go with no, and (3) smartasses don't get to meet Harry Connick, Jr. when I record with him in September."

"_Pajama Game _ was years ago, _Dad_, I'm into Cheyenne Jackson now," she said, but Rodney could tell she was worried. She even held out her milkshake and offered him a sip.

"You and your dad and vanilla." Rodney shook his head, but took a sip anyway. As if on cue, Rodney's cell phone started vibrating, and John's name showed up on the screen. "We were talking about how vanilla you are," Rodney said in greeting, causing Victoria to crack up, which Rodney was pretty sure wasn't the normal teenage reaction to references to your parents' sex life.

"Ha ha," replied John. "My teleconference with Ronon is over, and I am currently standing -" The phone cut out. "Right behind you," John finished, ruffling Victoria's carefully straightened hair and slipping his hand into Rodney's back pocket like the oversized teenager he was.

"Daddy!" squealed Victoria, kissing him on the cheek as if she hadn't seen him three hours ago and hadn't inherited the Sheppard repression genes. "I saw the _beeeeest High School Musical_ beach towel on the boardwalk, and I was wondering if could _please_ have my allowance early and go get it and maybe have some quarters for the arcade."

"You are _shameless_," Rodney marveled, but John caved like usual, and Victoria was off, with a quick hug for Rodney that did not make up for anything at all. "How did we end up with such a girly daughter?" he asked gruffly, because John was smiling far too fondly at him. "Chaya wasn't like that, was she? I mean, I only met her - You're wearing a tie."

John grinned. "I was at work."

"Ronon wears... hemp to the office! You're just doing this to bait me!"

"Is it working?"

"You're a huge sap," Rodney said, but he was never one to avoid temptation, so he pulled John right down by his ridiculous tie into a kiss that probably pushed the boundaries of public decency. John growled and pushed Rodney up against the boardwalk, nearly toppling them into the sand.

"Heh. If we're going to be friends, maybe we should take this under the boardwalk." John waggled his eyebrows in a not sexy at all way, but then slid a warm hand under Rodney's shirt and licked a stripe up his neck.

"You're ruining my childhood," muttered Rodney, kissing John again and pulling him under the boardwalk.

"We should probably find Victoria before she meets her future husband playing DDR and we have to murder him," panted John. He unbuttoned Rodney's shorts.

"I think we can give her a few minutes." Rodney sighed. "We're making up for lost time."


End file.
